


take what comes

by mysterytwin



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Donald centric, Family Bonding, Fluff, Gen, Mentions of Goldie and Daisy, i just love this family and i love it when they show donald their appreciation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-18 06:15:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16112555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysterytwin/pseuds/mysterytwin
Summary: Bravery usually means you’re standing in the face of danger or looking death in the eye. It means adventure and curses and traps. It’s puzzles and mind games, tricky questions and sticky situations. It’s difficulty and adversity wrapped up in a present all in one. It’s the rush and the adrenaline.But as Scrooge’s words start to sink in, he starts to realize that maybe that isn’t all of it.Maybe sometimes it’s taking charge of three children when your sister disappears. Maybe it’s doing everything you can when the odds are stacked against you, or when you’re running out of money but your nephews’ birthdays are coming up. Maybe it’s the late nights working on Halloween costumes or taking extra shifts at the grocery. Maybe it’s the adventure the only love and pain mixed together can give you. Maybe it’s remaining undefeated after all these years, to still be standing tall with both feet on the ground.Maybe it’s forgiving.- - -Donald is an adventurer, but this is something he isn't used to. Still, he's willing to give his all for his family. He's going to make this his best adventure yet.





	1. home is wherever you are

**Author's Note:**

> i just really love donald ok

When Della disappears, Donald leaves too.

He takes the unhatched eggs with him, and he doesn’t look back. Not once, not to see his home, not to check if Scrooge was there. It wouldn’t have mattered —it _shouldn’t_ have mattered. There were things that could not be fixed, choices that could not be taken back. Donald had looked misfortune in the eye too many times too count, but _this_ —this was a tragedy. This was all the wrong pieces of a puzzle, all the storm clouds. Tragedy took every victim and left no mercy. Somebody always, _always,_ got hurt. He just wished he didn’t have to learn that the hard way.

Donald finds a houseboat that’s big enough for four and settles in. It requires a lot of adjusting; he’s moved from a spacious manor to a cramped home in less than two days, and he’s still trying to scramble his life together before the eggs hatch. Still, he finds comfort in the sea—it calms his nerves, to be near something familiar. It’s soothing, the deep blue, there to catch him should he ever fall.

Slowly, he relearns what it’s like to become fully independent. There’s anger and resentment that pushes him on; he doesn’t need Scrooge. He can do this. He can be there for his own nephews, and he’ll protect them. He’ll keep them safe and sound, away from the dangers of adventure. Away from the pain it could bring.

(The worst part of it all is that adventure is in their blood. He knows that it will call for them one day, all three of them, and while he knows it’s inevitable, he’ll hold on to them for now. It’s easier this way. Simple. Safe.

Donald Duck had always been known for his caution.)

There are a few reports about the decline of Scrooge McDuck’s fortune, but Donald pays no mind to it. It’s none of his concern anymore, what Scrooge does with his money. Maybe it never was, since he built that rocket anyway even after Donald was so against it. He doesn’t care—right?

The day of their hatching arrives, and Donald can’t stop crying. Louie’s hatching almost gives him a heart attack, being forty minutes later than Dewey, but the egg cracks, and he’s filled with relief. He holds all three of them close, their little feathers tickling his face. He turns to the side to grin at Della before realizing _she isn’t there_ , before remembering that this was the way things were, that things were different now. He sighs, and allows one more tear to slide down his cheek. He settles the boys down.

“She loves you,” he whispers to them, even though their eyes are closed and they can’t understand. “She loves you so much. She wanted to give you the stars.”

(And look at what it cost her.)

Donald smiles and wipes off his tears. “Don’t worry. You’ve got me. I’ll—I’ll protect all three of you.”

He takes them home from the hospital and mumbles promises he knows will be hard to keep. He’s going to try, for them. He has to. Long enough for them to see the stars that their mother promised.

(He wishes that the falling stars could carve a path to bring her home, that one day he would open the door to their little boathouse, and she’d be standing there, grinning like she used to. Things would shift to how they were _supposed_ to be—before the Spear of Selene, before the accident, to _before_. To when he could breathe a little easier.)

He uses most of what he’s saved through the years to feed and care for them. He never knew all those treasures from pyramids and whatnot would ever come in handy until, well. Until he’s had three ducklings to look out for. He might never get a cent out of the McDuck fortune, but he has enough for now. And when the boys get older, he can start dropping them off at a daycare and start working. He’ll take whoever will accept him.

It’s hard work, but it’s not about him anymore.

When Donald’s birthday comes, he resists the urge to use _our_ instead of _my_. Because it’s always been a two person celebration: two cakes (sometimes one, shared), two sets of presents. July ninth is held for the two of them, and having a birthday without her for the first time—it just feels _wrong_. He feels undeserving, like he shouldn’t even _think_ of celebrating without Della. So he doesn’t. Not really.

(Why waste good money on a lonely cake when he can just buy more food for the boys?)

Instead, he goes through the same daily tasks, and it slips from his mind that today is supposed to be important. That it’s supposed to be special.

Louie starts crying, and Donald is there in an instant, cradling the little duckling in his arms.

“What’s wrong? You hungry, little guy?” Donald says. He feels for Louie’s bottom, and _of course_. “Okay. Give me a sec, I just need to get a new diaper, okay?”

The rest of the day passes all the same, and hours later, he’s standing by the edge of the houseboat, gaze out to sea. He remembers the days they’d sailed across oceans, diving down for treasure. Scrooge always had a way to find maps and bring trouble, and Della could always figure out away to set them free (after being the one to trigger the traps in the first place). And Donald…he’s the one who always got in the way.

He shakes his head and tries not to think about it. No. Those days are in the past now, they’re gone. Things aren’t going to go back to the way they used to, no matter how much he wants them to. It doesn’t work like that—he can’t go back to getting into trouble _just because_. He has ducks to take care of. He needs to be responsible.

(But—oh boy, oh boy, what a trio they were. Scrooge McDuck, adventure extraordinaire and absolutely loaded. He knew the ins and outs, kept his reflexes quick and his wits sharper. Smooth talker, and could get out of anything. There was Della Duck: the best pilot of anywhere, smart, and as cunning as she was gentle. She was never to be underestimated. Then there was him, Donald Duck, the sailor with the temper. He could fight with rage in his bones and as fiercely as a lion. He was in charge of plans, of attack segments and arrangements. He was the storm against the sea, and it was what he was good at.

He and his sister were the sky and the sea, and their uncle owned the land. No one stood a chance with all three of them together, and no one had ever thought a day would come that they would all be separated.)

Donald sighs. He allowed himself one cupcake, and he holds it in his hand now. Two candles on top, one for him and one for Della. It was always like that.

“Happy birthday, Della,” he whispers, holding out a shaky breath. “I hope you’re okay, wherever you are.”

Because she had to be out there somewhere, fighting to come back home. He didn’t know if he could handle believing otherwise.

Donald still remembers the sound of Scrooge’s panicked shouts, the bright, blinking red of _TRANSMISSION LOST,_ the sinking feeling as he stared at three motherless eggs. He would always remember.

He’d left, and Scrooge didn’t seem to have it in him to put up a fight.

(And if he’s being completely honest with himself, he almost wanted to stay.)

He wonders how Scrooge is now; has he moved on? Does he pretend that it never happened? Did he forget, curse his kilts one more time, and mutter how much trouble family is? Did it matter to him?

(Of course it did.)

And bitterness may have swept him up and found no place to pity and to forgive, but Donald couldn’t bring it in himself not to be angry. Because it _was_ Scrooge’s fault. He _built_ the rocket—and he was perfectly aware that Della’s ducklings were on the way—and he helped her go through it. He should’ve talked her down, too much could go wrong—too much _did_ go wrong. And Della, she shouldn’t have—she had _children_ —how _could_ she—

No. Logically, Donald knows that neither of them could have known any of it would happen. He knows this. He understands it. And while it does make it a little easier to breathe, while it takes a fraction of the hurt away, it can’t outweigh the costs.

Because while Scrooge lost his niece, Donald lost his other half.

Della was his best friend. The one person who was always so _constant_ , always there when he needed her. They’ve been through so much together, and everything came to a screeching halt with a single accident.

(How do you lose someone who’s always there?)

She was gone. Maybe dead—but he didn’t entertain that thought too much.

If anyone could drive a spaceship and survive, it had to be Della.

Things fell out of balance with her disappearance. He understands her want to give her sons the Something More—because those three deserved it all—but he wishes that she would’ve waited a little longer.

They used to go everywhere together. But now she was somewhere in the stars, and he was stuck on the ground.

The stars are glittering on the ocean, waves lapping to shore slowly. Donald breathes in, and counts. He knew it would be rough without her, and he was right. But he has to get through this.

“Happy birthday, Donald,” but it’s not his voice. Della is next to him now, her pilot clothing worn and goggles on her forehead. This isn’t the first time it’s happened. On the lowest and darkest nights, she appears. As a ghost, or a reflection of what he wants most, he’s not sure—maybe both. “Another year older, huh?”

He smiles at her weakly. “I almost thought you wouldn’t be here.”

Della propped her arms unto the edge, her eyes out to sea. “I wouldn’t miss our birthday for the world.”

(Oh, how he wishes she wasn’t lying.)

“Come home,” he says—but instead what comes out is a plea of desperation. “Please.”

Donald cannot save her with his words or with his love, but he can try.

His sister doesn’t look at him.

“They need you. They need a mother,” he tells her. He thinks of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, and how the world is so much bigger than he thought he could handle. “I need my sister.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she whispers.

Donald falters. He knows this is all fake and she’s not really there, but her words ring with a truth he knows he can’t ignore.

Instead of arguing, he sighs. “But you’ll try? You don’t have to do it for me, but _please_ —do it for your sons.”

Slowly, she nods. “Uncle Scrooge? How is he?”

(He knows that the only reason she’s asking is because he wonders the same thing, too.)

“I don’t know,” Donald says, a little sad and angry. A mix of both. “We haven’t spoken since I left.”

“And you don’t intend to, do you?” She always knew him best, better than anyone.

“No,” he admits. “Unless I run into him at the grocery, then we won’t speak at all.”

“It’s okay to be angry, Donald,” she says, voice soft. “But it can’t last forever.”

He knows he has a temper, a short one with a fuse bound to explode any minute. But this one feels different. It isn’t impatient or quick. It’s growing inside him (eating him from the inside), and he just keeps letting it manifest.

“I’m not ready,” he mumbles, and there are tears in his eyes again.

“The best of us never are.”

“What do you want me to do? I can’t walk up to manor and expect him to let me in. It’s Scrooge! He thinks family is nothing but trouble!”

(He knows that isn’t true.)

“Whatever happens, whatever you choose, I’ll be with you.”

(He knows this isn’t true, either, but oh, how he hopes it is.)

Della shifts closer to him, and takes his hand to squeeze it. “Hey, look. The sun’s coming up.”

And there it is. On the horizon, faint tints of yellow peek across the blue, lighting up the darkness. The light streaks across the waters, bright and calming. Della always loved the sunrise.

He turns to look at her, but the weight against his hand is gone and so is she. He tries not to be disappointed; he’s had enough of that for a lifetime.

With one last look at the ocean before him (and the resigning thought of the adventures that could’ve been), Donald heads back inside and goes to bed.

And just like that, the first birthday without her is over.

The following days turn into months, which then turn into years. Donald grows more accustomed to his new life with three children, and even though it’s not easy, it’s more than fulfilling.

He’s there every step of the way, from their first steps to their first day of school. He works two (on occasion, three) jobs to support them, works even harder when their birthday and holidays roll around, and tries to be there. He visits every football game and every quiz bee. He’s there when Dewey joins the school play, and he finds the perfect spot to cheer him on (he’s the loudest one there) and records every minute of it. And when Della comes home, he’ll show every one of his videos to her, to help her catch up with what she’s missed.

(Once, Louie gets detention for getting into a fight. It took a while before the duckling admitted what caused him to punch the other kid, but he mumbled something along the lines of _they said Uncle Donald was pathetic,_ and that had been just about it. And if Louie got a treat to ice cream and multiple hugs—well, that’s Donald’s business.)

But it’s also exhausting, and there are nights when it all seems too much, when the extra money jars have to be emptied and he has to skip meals. Hopelessness becomes routine, and insomnia greets him like an old friend on the worst of nights. It’s repeated, a cycle of harsh realizations.

(He feels guilty whenever he has to leave early in the morning, or when he comes too late and the boys are already in bed. He tries to be with them as much as he can, it just—he needs the money. He isn’t Scrooge, he can’t pull money out like magic. But still—he finally understands what his uncle meant by hard work.)

But there are moments, times when he remembers why he’s doing all of it. Not for Scrooge, not for Della, not for himself, but for the boys. Because when he wakes up late and finds they’ve cooked breakfast with sheepish smiles, or when they finish their homework early and Donald has enough time to watch their favorite TV series with them, it feels _enough_ . They make him so _happy_ , happier than the rush adventure gives him. And that feeling is something he wouldn’t trade for the world. Because they are the best things to ever happen to him, even if they came from the worst situation.

They make things enough.

They are enough.

(Donald wishes he was, too.)

So he keeps going.

He’s Donald Duck the Adventurer, and this may not be the type he’s used to, but it’s going to be his best adventure yet.


	2. all my ghosts are you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald finds Della's ghost wherever he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all the lovely people who commented last time!! <3

Donald sees ghosts.

Well, it’s really one ghost in three different ways.

As the triplets grow older, he sees more and more of their mother in them. Maybe it’s because he’s getting old, too, but there really is a lot of Della within their spirits. It’s painful sometimes, to see so much of her in someone else, while she’s so out of reach.

Huey’s got her curiosity and wits, her way of observing intensely and understanding what’s going on. Louie can talk his way out of any situation, undercut his words to make them go his way, and find a loophole from miles away. Della did that better than anyone (of course, she learned this from Scrooge), and no one better than Louie to receive the trait. And Dewey—there’s more of her in him than the other two. The intense recklessness and desire for something bigger than himself—that’s all Della. Not that Della always did anything to get what she wanted, god help anyone in her path—but Dewey is also exactly the type to do anything to get what he wanted, _god help anyone in his path_.

And they all have her smile.

Her ghost becomes less of an imagination and more of a reality.

(But what Donald doesn’t realize is that there’s so much of him in the boys, too. Huey has the infamous Duck temper, the responsibility, the caution, the need to protect. He finds his own compassion in Dewey, in his thoughtfulness and love. He loves fiercely, with every inch of him, even if it hurts. And then there’s Louie, who has the vulnerability, not afraid to show his flaws. He wants to be safe from harm, away from danger. Donald knows that feeling better than anyone.

And one day, when he does notice these things, he’ll find that they’re _his_ kids, too.)

His fears of the boys finding adventure’s call catches up with him one day by the hands of no other than Scrooge McDuck himself. He knew trouble was bound to stir the moment he left them at the manor with his uncle, but he’d been too caught up with getting the accountant job that he didn’t really stop and think about it too much.

(Never mind that his hands were shaking as he drove to the manor, knowing the route by heart despite not having gone anywhere close to it in years. He didn’t know if he was making the right choice—but it was the only one he had. That predicament seemed more and more common these days.)

Donald would never admit it aloud—especially not to the boys or _Scrooge_ —but he had missed the thrill of running away from a collapsing temple, of chasing after treasure. Sure, protecting his kids was always Priority Number One, but it felt good.

The houseboat gets destroyed, and Donald doesn’t really have a choice but to say yes to Scrooge’s invitation. A tiny part of him lets the relief flood in because even after all this time, Scrooge still means _family_ or _home_. Another part panics and stresses because Scrooge is _family_ —the family he hasn’t spoken to in years because of anger.

(Or is it still even anger? Somewhere along the line, he assumes, it transitioned to anger to a more subdued bitterness. Because distance makes the grow fonder, and Donald might not be exactly _fond_ of Scrooge, but he does miss him sometimes.)

The resentment has faded somehow, and maybe he always knew it was inevitable that he would come back to Scrooge.

The second drive of the day there leaves him an anxious wreck. The boys chatter excitedly with Webbigail Vanderquack—who, keeps looking at him in awe, saying things like _daring_ and _adventurer_ but it’s too fast for him to comprehend—and Donald sits stiffly and keeps reminding the boys to be on the best behavior. If someone had told him that very morning that he’d be living with Scrooge again, he would’ve fainted.

The car pulls up in front of the gates, and Donald holds his breath. Sure, he’d been there this very morning, but he hasn’t stepped _inside_ the house for so long. The gardens remain the same, still growing beautiful and grand flowers, and the exterior is unchanged. Still a rich duck’s home.

It’s what’s inside that counts.

Donald ushers the kids to go inside first while Launchpad drops the houseboat into the pool, and he can feel Scrooge’s eyes on his back as he crosses the threshold. Here it goes.

The manor looks…the same. Duller, even. It made sense, since it was just Scrooge, Mrs. Beakley, and Webby living in it—he should’ve expected it. Della and he used to decorate and run around, and without them, he can only assume it’s the most peaceful the manor’s ever been.

But now the boys are here, so he really doesn’t expect it to stay that way.

As the days pass, Scrooge starts going out more and he takes the kids along with him. Of course, there are some adventures he sensibly deemed were too dangerous to bring young-ins, and Donald respected that. Mrs. B once told him that he hasn’t been active like this for a really long time, that the kids really brought back the spark to his name.

(And he still trusts Scrooge to protect them, even after Della’s accident. Because he’s family, and no matter what Scrooge might say—no matter how many times he might grumble _family is nothing but trouble_ —Donald knows Scrooge values family more than anything. Even more than money.)

It’s nice. While he never really planned on the triplets ever meeting Scrooge—definitely not like this after a series of _almost dying_ —it’s comforting to know that now it’s not just all up to him.

(The day he left the boys at the manor, he needed the accountant job because he was going through a rough patch, but now they were with Scrooge, and it almost all felt okay again. He isn’t going to depend on his uncle for everything—heaven knows that the old man wouldn’t even _let_ him do that and _Donald’s_ the one who chooses and promises to care for the boys over and over again—but it is nice to not be alone in this.)

But he’s also learned that the best things in life usually have an expiration date.

So Donald makes it a habit to stay away as much as he can. Aside from meals,making sure the boys are finished with their homework, and tucking them into bed at night, he keeps to the houseboat. It is his _home_ , after all. But the truth is that he’s not sure when Scrooge will take his invitation away and kick them back to the curb—he can only hope the boat will be fixed by then—or if he ever will. He certainly hopes it won’t come to that, but he needs to be ready if it does.

In the few adventures that Donald does tag along, it’s fun. He worries more about the children and less about himself, but he can still enjoy it more or less. It’s thrilling and exciting and it almost feels like the good old days. It’s like he’s his old self again—just older, with more to lose.

And it’s nice to see the kids so _happy._ They bounce and run around and they get to see the things Donald would have never been able to show him on his own. They see parts of the world that he could have never offered, experience things first hand without caring about the consequences. He remembers what that felt like—to be the child and to see the wonders without a second thought. Now he’s on the other side, the one who watches and protects. This is his duty now.

And besides, it doesn’t hurt to have a little fun now and then.

 

* * *

 

 

Huey is already in the kitchen when Donald enters at six in the morning, the smell of bread and pancakes wafting through the air. The duckling has never been perfect at cooking, but it’s edible most of the time and he appreciates the sentiment.

“Here, Uncle Donald,” Huey says cheerily as he placed a plate on the table where Donald sits by, a warm stack on pancakes standing unevenly.

“Thank you,” he says with a grateful smile. “Are your brothers up yet?”

“No,” Huey tells him. “It _is_ Saturday, after all.”

Donald takes a bite of the pancake—and it’s surprisingly delicious. “This is really good, Huey,” he tells his nephew, and Huey’s cheeks go pink.

“Uncle Scrooge came by earlier, actually. He helped me,” Huey confesses, but there’s not much of shame anywhere. “I didn’t know he could cook.”

Donald blinks. “Uncle Scrooge…cooked this?”

He nods. “Yeah. He really seemed to know what he was doing.”

“I didn’t know he could, either,” Donald says. “That’s new.”

He vaguely remembers the mornings at the manor before being whisked away to some new, exciting adventure that seemed to have no end. (And yes, he tended to receive the shorter end of the stick when it came to escaping all in one piece, but he usually had a good time.) It seemed likely that because Duckworth was always around back then, it never occurred to him that Scrooge could cook.

“Where is he now?” Donald asks, and gems aiming for nonchalant and carefree—but Huey’s always been observant. “His office?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He looks concerned. “Is something wrong? Is it the pancakes? I knew it wasn’t ready, but Uncle Scrooge said—”

“Huey, no, it’s fine,” Donald says slowly, his lips curving upwards. “The food’s fine. I was just curious.”

“Oh,” Huey says. “Okay. That’s good.”

“Don’t worry about your cooking, okay? You’ll get better with time. You just need more practice,” he says softly. “I don’t know a lot of kids these days who know how to use a stove.”

“We’re the _only_ kids you know, Uncle Donald,” Huey retorts, but he’s grinning. “But thank you.”

“How did the Junior Woodchuck thing go yesterday? I’m really sorry I couldn’t make it,” Donald apologizes. He came with Huey to every Father & Son Camping Trip ever since the duckling joined, but yesterday was the first exception. He recently got a new job, and he couldn’t afford to miss it, especially since it paid much more than any other one he had before.

“Oh! Uncle Scrooge came with me,” Huey says, his eyes lighting up.

Donald blinks. This is the second surprising thing of the morning, and it’s not even nine in the morning yet.

“Yeah? How did it go?” Donald asks. “Wait, no—how did you _convince_ him?”

Huey shrugs. “He offered, actually. He showed off a bit, but it was nothing too bad. Everyone loved him.”

“Oh,” Donald says simply, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say. “That’s…that’s really nice of him.”

Scrooge was getting along with the kids, and Donald couldn’t be any more happier.

(Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if this meant he was still needed around. Scrooge could provide everything for them. He could give them the food, the adventures, the excitement, and the luxury he never could. Donald’s just bad luck. Is he really what they need?)

(A part of him aches to answer _yes,_ even if his mind may not believe it fully.)

“That’s great, Huey,” he says, instead of voicing anything in his head.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Donald, I still want you to be the one to come with me. You’re the best,” Huey says. “That is, if it’s okay?”

(Della was observant too. She always knew exactly what to say.)

“Of course it is!” Donald exclaims. “That’s—yes, of course. I would love to.”

“Uncle Scrooge might be really good at adventures, but he’s not the best at _proper_ camping,” Huey adds. “And you’re fun to be with. No one can make warm marshmallows like you.”

Donald’s insides are melting. He feels so soft, so light.

(Little by little, the worries and insecurities slip away quietly.)

“Thank you, Huey,” he tells him as sincerely as he can. He breathes a little easier.

Donald eyes the clock to the side. It’s almost nine, and he needs to leave for his job soon.

He stands up and adjusts his clothes. Turning to Huey, he says, “Remember, if Uncle Scrooge decides to take you an adventure, make sure to—”

“Text you every ten minutes and stay out of trouble, yes, Uncle Donald,” he finishes.

Donald flushes a little, but nods. “Good. Make sure to remind your brothers, okay? If all goes well, I might be able to come home early, and we can watch a movie or something. That sound okay?”

Huey smiles. “It’s great.”

Donald ruffles his nephew’s hair. “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

Huey takes his plate and puts it in the sink. He shoots Donald a thumbs up and grins. “We’re all rooting for you.”

Donald beams and turns to leave. If they believed he could do it, then it’s more than enough.

 

* * *

 

Everything goes perfectly. Not a single mishap or object out of place. The manager even commends him for his work, and he’s fairly certain that things can only get better from here.

True to his word, Donald arrives home early, ready to relax with a movie with the kids. He drops into the couch, his arm propped up by the side, his shoulders slumped. Louie is flipping through the channels on the floor, while Huey and Dewey chew on popcorn next to him. Webby is vibrating with excitement.

“Oooh, what are we watching today? I saw this trailer the other day, it was about Bigfoot—”

“He’s a hoax,” Louie deadpans, and the way his eyes flicker to his brothers tell Donald that the cryptid has been an issue before. Maybe on one of their adventures. “I’m feelin’ some action movies today. How about _The Duck Knight_ —”

“Nope,” Donald says before his nephew can say anything else. “You’re too young.”

“You always say that,” Dewey points out, a small frown on his beak. “Come on, please? You can cover our eyes during the violent parts.”

“There are violent parts?” Webby perks up, and Donald doesn’t know whether to find that unsettling or not. “What kind? I once saw this documentary on Quack the Ripper, and his name is really funny, now what you think of it. I mean, what kind of name is Quack?”

Dewey sits up straighter. “You guys, we could watch _James Pond_! He’s pretty cool, and the action scenes are supposed to be _amazing_ —”

Huey looks excited. “It got an average critics’ rating, too, so—”

“No. We’re not watching any of those. You’re still too young,” Donald repeats more firmly.

Thankfully, the kids don’t put up much more of a fight after that. They go through the list of movies again, trying for Donald’s approval. In the end, they choose an old film that Donald and the boys have seen before, but Webby hasn’t, so it’s a good start. Donald leans back and lets his shoulders relax as the film begins to play. He’s handed a bowl of popcorn, and he doesn’t hesitate before eating them.

(It’s about three musketeers who go on a mission to save the princess. It brings him a sense of calm and familiarity, and it’s comforting.)

An hour and a half later, the movie is nearing its end. Unsurprisingly, Louie, Webby, and Huey are all asleep next to each other, snoring softly. Dewey’s still awake, but barely, really. He yawns next to Donald, and curls up next to his uncle’s arm.

“How was your day today?” the small duck asks, his voice trying to combat the weariness. “Did everything go well?”

“Just fine,” Donald tells him, adjusting his arm so that Dewey isn’t so stiff. “The manager seems to like me.”

“That’s good,” Dewey whispers, and he’s fighting a losing battle against the beauty that is sleep. “You always come home so tired. Maybe this time you can always come home early, like today.”

Donald smiles. “Yeah, I hope so, too.” He turns back to the TV and reaches for the remote before switching it off. The musketeers have reached their happy ending, their respective love interests standing by them. “Come on, let’s get you and your siblings to bed.”

“Mkay,” he mumbles, reaching over to nudge Huey awake. The older one groans, but rubs the sleep out of his eyes for a moment before reaching over to wake Louie and Webby. “Time to go, guys.”

Webby seems too deep into her dream to wake, so Donald resigns to picking her up gently. She’s snoring quietly as he places his arms under her to hoist her up.

“I’ll go hand her over to Mrs. B. I’ll see you in the morning,” he tells the boys.

They all hug him as custom, and he ruffles the top of their heads. “Good night, boys. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Uncle Donald,” they all mumble sleepily, all in their own pace.

He shuts the lights off in the room, and holds the sleeping duckling on his arms as he makes his way to her bedroom.

It’s been a good day, and Donald feels better than usual. He’s got high hopes for the future, and maybe if he’s lucky enough—on the rare occasion fortune takes pity on him—there will be more days like this to come.

 

* * *

 

Electricity isn’t a problem anymore, but Donald still makes sure not to use it excessively. The kitchen lights cast a faint glow over the room, slight shadows dancing around all around him. He sits next to the tabletop, a cup of coffee in front of him, newly made. The house is silent all around him, not a single creak or whisper.

It’s nights like these when he dreams wide awake of days he won’t move from job to job, where he has a proper house of his own, where the boys have all the room they need. Where they can all grow into the space, to fill up empty corners with laughter and heartbeats. Where they can grow up without ever having to worry about money.

Maybe a time like that will come one day, but his own share of misfortune keeps making him stumble through the path to luxury. Dead end jobs, microwaved and canned foods, pennies stored in jars—if this cycle were to ever end, he would never say he missed it.

Everyone wants a life of ease, but so few are able to reach it.

Donald’s trained in hearing the sound of young footsteps, and it’s even more unmistakable against the stillness of the night. A shadow moves closer, inches nearer. Louie comes into view, looking weary, but awake.

“Uncle Donald?”

“What’s wrong?” he asks, as the young duck placed himself on the sea next to Donald. “Bad dream?”

Louie nods, and sinks himself against Donald’s arm, who supports his weight. “It was scary.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he says softly. He knows never to force it, to push too much. “Or maybe hot chocolate will help.”

“Yes, please,” Louie says with a tiny, grateful smile. “To both of those things.” He detached himself from his uncle and props his arms on the table.

Donald makes his way to the cupboard. He’d added the triplets’ favorite brand of hot chocolate (admittedly, it was far cheaper than all of the fancier brands Scrooge owned) when they first moved in just in case, and picked it out. He took a mug from the cabinet and tore the package open.

“We were on this adventure,” he tells Donald, his voice small. “A treasure hunt in the forest. And it was going really well at first, we were getting all the clues right, and it seemed we were getting really close.”

The water finishes heating, and he pours it into the mug. He mixes it, and brings it back to the table. Donald offers him a smile, nudging him to keep going.

“We finally got to the treasure, and I was so excited so I touched it. Uncle Scrooge tried to stop me, but I was already there. didn’t know it was cursed, and suddenly everyone—” Louie’s voice cracks, and Donald takes his hand to squeeze it. “Everyone disappeared. You, Uncle Scrooge, Huey, Dewey, Webby, and Launchpad. And I tried running outside but then these walls came out of nowhere, and there were snakes everywhere, and then water started pouring, and I couldn’t _breathe—_ ”

“Louie, it’s okay,” Donald soothes. “You don’t have to anymore. It’s okay.”

He’s shaking. “I just—if I’m all alone, I’m useless.”

“No, you aren’t,” Donald says firmly.

“What do I have that Dewey and Huey don’t?” he asks, and his eyes tell Donald he’s been looking for that answer for a really long time. “Dewey’s brave and Huey’s smart. What does that make me?”

“We are defined by more than just one characteristic, Louie,” he tells him gently. “Your brothers are more than smart and brave, and you are a lot more than you give yourself credit for. It isn’t about what you have that they don’t. It’s about what you do with who you are. And you are caring and quick and selfless, all of that and so much more. Do you remember that time when you got in detention for defending your brothers? It wasn’t because you’re reckless like your teacher said—you did that because you love. And that alone is enough. You are _not_ useless, and you never will be.”

Louie looks up at him, tears streaming down his cheeks, and tackles him an embrace.

“And if anything goes wrong, I will always be there to protect you,” he tells his nephew. “I will always try my best.”

“I know,” Louie says. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he whispers as he lets go. “Now go drink your hot chocolate before it gets cold.”

“Yes, Uncle Donald,” he says with a teasing grin. “You’re worth more than you think you are, too. You work hard all the time, and it’s all for us. Thank you for that.”

Donald nods. (He’s trying not to cry.)

They sit like that for a while, thinking silently the better days to come. It’s nice, he thinks, to be sitting with your thoughts, while not being completely alone. It’s a comforting thought, that there’s someone to pull you back up if you get too deep. That there’s someone who won’t let the shadows reach you.

The lights stay on.

 

* * *

 

“You have _got_ to be kidding me.”

Donald pounds on the door before him, but with no such luck. It’s sealed shut, with no other exit or entrance. He curses internally. Of _course_ Scrooge had to choose some ancient temple where no one’s ever made it out alive, and of _course_ Donald had to come along, knowing fully well that there were risks. _Come along, it’ll be fun, Uncle Donald,_ Dewey had to say. And they’d given him their best puppy faces, and how could he have possibly resisted? He came as a guardian to protect them, but how on earth is he supposed to do that if he’s trapped in here?

“Oh! Maybe there’s a secret passage somewhere! Maybe if we press one of these blocks…”

Webby stands next to him, bouncing. As much as he’s glad he’s not alone, he would rather that Webby was safe on the _other side_ , instead of here, with no way to get out.

“I don’t think so,” he says, turning around. Torches light up the walls of the room, and from what he can see, all of them are covered in dust. There are inscriptions on the wall, hieroglyphics he can’t understand. On the other end, there’s a huge drawing of the sun, with its rays curving. “The blocks seem too solid. But I bet there’s gotta be some clue somewhere.”

Webby hums as she looks at the symbols on the walls, a bounce to her step. She doesn’t seem worried at all. How he misses that, to not care so much as a child, to always have someone to depend on.

Donald looks at the walls. There has to be a hidden message in one of these, one that will tell them the way out. He doesn’t know what the sun means, but—rooms like these usually have _something_ , don’t they?

He holds a hand out to the blocks, but there really isn’t anything but dust. Everything is sealed to the very core, and they’ll run out of proper air if they don’t make it out soon. He tries the doors again. There’s a crack in the middle where they shut closed, and he feels for it. He knows it won’t work, but he tries pulling them open anyway, against all common sense. No avail.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Webby says suddenly, her voice echoing off the walls. She’s staring at the walls intently. “I can’t understand any of these! They’re not any of the ones I’ve seen before, and I don’t think they’re used properly, they’re all wrong, we’re gonna be stuck here forever—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Donald says, quickly coming over to her. He rests his hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay. We’ll find another way out.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay. I’m just worried. Do you think the others know we’re here?”

“I hope so,” he says. He and Webby had fallen behind because he’d dropped his flashlight she was unfortunate enough to be the one walking after him. The boys have probably noticed, he assumes, and maybe they’re looking for them. “But just in case, we’ll need to try to find our own solution.”

“That sounds good,” she tells him. “You’re used to things like these, though, right? I mean, you were Scrooge’s sidekick! You’ve gone on tons of adventures!”

He manages a small smile. It was never him who was the hero of things like these; it was always his sister and uncle. Sure, he’s had his fair share of victories, but never anything like this.

“Why did you stop?” she asks, and she sounds so innocent for a question that carries so much weight. Her voice is lower, a touch more serious. “Why did you leave?”

He almost can’t look at her. Donald shakes his head. “I—I guess it just got too much.”

She doesn’t seem very convinced, but she nods. “Oh. Okay,” Webby says. “Yeah, I understand. Sometimes after a really long day, all I want to do is sleep for the next couple of years. I think that would be fun.”

“Yeah, it definitely sounds like fun,” Donald agrees. He looks at the walls again, touching the engravings. They have to mean something.

“But then after I remember how exciting it all is, and then I never want to sleep again,” she says with a grin. “It’s especially fun with family.”

There’s a weight on his chest as he remembers the _before_. When it was adventures galore, when the land, sea, and sky all blended into one great exploration. When that Great Wide Somewhere used to be enough, when the stars didn’t mock him for being too late to save her. When everything was okay.

It’s all a distant memory now.

“Yeah,” he tells her softly. “When you’re with people care about, it almost seems like nothing can go wrong.”

“Except when things get tricky,” she adds with a smile. “Like this.”

“But we manage, don’t we?”

She nods. “I’m glad you came today,” Webby tells him. “Huey, Dewey, and Louie miss you, you know. They never knew you as an adventurer, and I guess they want to see if the stories I tell them are true.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What kind of stories?”

Webby shrugs. “Not much, to be honest. There isn’t a lot of stuff that show up when I research. I’ve heard a few, though. Like when you sailed the Seven Seas, or when you stopped the balloon monster, or when you found that pyramid—” She halts, and slowly turns back to face the wall. “I think I know what to do.”

“What?”

“It’s like that time you went to Giza!” Webby exclaims. “I’ve only read reports, so it might not be totally accurate, but there are theories that the pyramids were built with the help of aliens, right? You found the treasure with Mr. McDuck by realizing that the inscriptions were read backwards as a code! Only this time—”

He looks at the inscriptions closer, tilting his head slightly, before it finally clicks into place.

“They’re upside down!” Donald finishes excitedly. He remembers the trip vaguely, but it’s there. _Della_ was actually the one who figured it out, not him. It took them much longer than it should have, but once everything made sense, they got out just in time.

(He wonders if Webby knows anything about his sister. If she does, why hasn’t she said anything? How good is Scrooge at pretending someone so close to him never existed?

He’s only mentioned Della to the boys a few times, only when the pain seemed to fade. He gave them a photo, one from their birthday, but he’s hasn’t spoke about her to them since.)

Webby fishes her phone out from her pocket, and takes a photo of the symbols. She flips her phone to read them the proper way. “There! It says, uh...that’s a flame, and then there’s an Eye of Ra, who’s associated with the sun, so maybe—”

Webby grabs the torch from the wall and walks over to the other side of the room, and holds it close to the drawing of the sun. Slowly enough, there’s a loud crack, and the wall splits in half before moving sideways. It opens to a hallway, with more torches lighting a path.

“Ta-da!” Webby says, beaming. “I think this is our way out.”

Donald looks at her in awe, and there’s a spark of recognition in the way she acts. It seems so familiar: the genuine curiosity, the crave for adventure and the unknown, to be quick on her toes. She’s rough around the edges, but she keeps a golden heart within her chest.

“Oh boy, oh boy! That was amazing!” he says with a grin. “That was genius! I haven’t seen someone work that quick since—”

He falters, and blinks.

Since Della.

(He wonders if Scrooge has noticed it, too.)

His pause causes Webby to stare at him, a bit confused.

He lets out a deep breath. “Great job, Webby. I wouldn’t have been able to get out of here without you.”

She beams. “Sure, Uncle Donald!” Realizing what she just said, Webby freezes. Her cheeks go pink, and she stutters out, “I mean—is it okay if I call you that? It sorta just slipped out, and it’s totally fine if you don’t want me to—”

Donald ruffles the feathers on top of her head. “It’s more than okay.”

She rushes to hug him, and he reciprocates as tight as he can.

“Now, come on,” he tells her, taking the torch from her hands, and raising it forward to illuminate the hall before them. “Let’s go find that treasure.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a dream this time. They’re on the boat again, the dark waters before them. He’s never feared the ocean before, but something doesn’t settle quite right with him. It almost feels like drowning.

Della is next to him. Her eyes are on the sky, and she grips the railings tightly.

“Are you afraid?” she asks, barely audible, her voice tight. She doesn’t look away from the stars. “They’ve always been so comforting, but now…it’s almost like they know I’m never going to make it back home.”

“They will guide you home,” he tells her, mostly because he doesn’t know what to say. “The stars…they’ve never failed you before, have they?”

Slowly, she shakes her head. “No, not yet.”

“Then they won’t start now.”

For a moment, it’s just them and the quiet waters. Donald wants to ask so many questions, none he knows he will ever get the answers to.

(To miss someone so dear is to learn to numb the pain.)

“Don’t blame Scrooge,” Della tells him softly. “You know it’s not his fault.”

She always knows. Somehow, she has a way of understanding him.

(Or maybe it’s simply because this is all just in his head.)

“I know,” he says with a sigh. “It just makes it easier.”

“I wish I was here with you,” she says, and she takes his hand to squeeze it.

“I feel like I failed you,” he tells her. “We were arguing the last time I saw you—”

“No,” she says firmly. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve done the best you can. Better than anything I can do. You might have insecurities, Don, but I’ve never known you to give up.”

Donald stays silent, his eyes watching the moon above him. She’s out there, somewhere. He has to hold on to hope. It’s the second thing he can’t ever lose.

(The first being family, of course. He’d lost it once, and now he knows to never let go.)

“You’re going to meet them one day,” he tells her with as much determination he can muster. “I’ll make sure of it.”

She smiles weakly, but doesn’t say anything.

“I promise,” and he means it more than anything. “I’ll find you.”

She’s fading away. Della squeezes his hand one more time, her grip on the railing loosening. “You have to let go, Donald.”

“No, I won’t. I can’t—”

Then she’s gone, like she was never there.

 

* * *

 

He’s never imagined that they would find out like this.

He can feel their anger, their bitterness, though they keep to themselves. He’d always thought he’d sit them down, explain things from the beginning, try to hold himself together as he recounts the story. He always knew that anger would be part of the process, but it would also allow them to mourn properly. Slow and steady, unlike this fast paced agony they sit through now. He never wanted that for them, but now it’s too late to do anything about it.

They don’t ask him any questions, which takes him by surprise, if he’s being honest. He’s a little thankful, too, because there are some things he knows he can’t give the answers to, ones only Della herself can.

So instead, Donald takes out their favorite snacks and sets it down by their beds for them to find. Something by the corner of the room catches his eye, and he picks it up, a faded piece of a paper. It’s a brochure of Cape Suzette, and he remembers how the boys longed for it. He sighs; maybe it’s time to leave Duckburg, after all.

Mrs. B, however, seems to think otherwise.

He suspects something is up the moment Webby and Launchpad throw ingredients into his kitchen, but he’s learned enough by now not to ask too many questions. Their meal starts of a little rocky, and it’s an obvious set-up for trying to get them to stay.

But still, he listens to what they have to say.

( _Devoted, thoughtful, passionate_.)

(How his heart melts at those words.)

“This was Scrooge’s favorite dessert,” Mrs. B says, holding the plate. Donald already knows this, of course. He helped Della make the pastry every year for their uncle’s birthday, to smooth it over, even though Scrooge hated the occasion. “Oh, I don’t want to remind you of that horrid man who lost your mother all those years ago, even if it was an accident that tore him up for ten years, propelling him into a desperate search attempt that left him broken and nearly bankrupt.”

Donald doesn’t really know what to feel. He knows that Scrooge mourned, but he was never really sure to what extent. Maybe he refused to believe that Scrooge’s pain rivaled his, but it should have never even been like that. Or maybe his anger blinded him for far too long, led him to believe that his uncle was fine about all of it. Maybe he isn’t the only one who’s still hurting.

(Would it have hurt less, if they were there to support one another?)

“But I understand, you’re upset because you lost one family member, which was terrible and painful, so you decided you should go ahead and lose another,” she continues. “Perhaps it’s worth considering that the reason Scrooge closed himself off was because the loss of Della was the hardest thing he’d ever faced, harder than any adventure. It’s not that he didn’t care, it’s that he cared about family more than anything in the world. And perhaps he still does.”

The words sink in. He knows what to do.

“Mrs. B’s right. Uncle Scrooge needs us, and we need him. Our family has been apart too long,” he says, his eyes on the boys. “It’s time for us to come together.”

He smiles. “Come here, boys.”

Huey and Louie come toward him, embracing him with tears in their eyes. Dewey remains on the chair, arms crossed.

“Wait, wait, wait. But—but the Spear. And Mom…”

Donald understands. He’s been there, too. To be angry and to refuse to forgive. The anger is justified, but he’s also learned that nothing good ever comes out of it.

So he waits.

He’s always been patient in the moments that matter.

Dewey cracks a smile before coming toward him, and his eyes shut against Donald’s chest. He holds all three of them, his kids, the ducklings he’s raised from birth, and silently promises to never let go. Not even for a second.

And when Magica attacks, it almost feels like a call from home.

The boys finally get to match Webby’s stories with reality, as Donald barks orders and plans out their moves to steal back the town. It feels good, to have everything under control, like he used to. To still be undefeated, even after all these years.

Make no mistake: when there’s family on the line, Donald Duck gives his all.

He trusts the kids to bring Scrooge back. He’s seen all of them in their adventures, and they continuously prove that they’re more capable that he thinks they are. Donald protects and fights the shadows, while they go and find the treasure. It’s the routine. He defends—it’s what he’s good at.

And eventually, they win back their uncle.

Donald watches as Scrooge reunites with the kids, and he decides that it’s finally time for them to talk properly. Just the two of them, about the things they’ve missed and the words they should’ve said. About Della.

It’s a new beginning, and he can’t wait to see where it goes.


	3. don't worry about tomorrow (i'll take care of it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donald and Scrooge talk about things that are long overdue. It feels like walking on a tightrope, and Donald’s always been afraid of heights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and now, the duck you've all been waiting for finally makes an appearance. scrooge mcduck, everybody.
> 
> thank you to all those who commented, left kudos, and read this!! i appreciate every single one of you <33

The ride home is silent.

All four of the kids are snoring in the backseat, hunched over each other for comfort. Donald sits next to them, with Huey draped over him, the side of his chest turned into a pillow. Mrs. B sits on the other end, with Webby against her. Scrooge and Launchpad sit in front, the streetlights illuminating the path home.

The adrenaline had worn off about an hour ago, and Donald is exhausted. He blinks sleepily out the window, an arm propped to support his head. The stars are bright tonight, especially after a battle full of shadows and darkness. It’s comforting.

His mind floats in and out between sleep. The damages from Magica’s encounter destroyed some roads and wrecked more havoc that he originally thought, so the ride is bumpy and longer than usual.

At least it’s all over.

Donald thinks about how easily Magica slipped into their lives, how easy it was for her to penetrate her attack from the inside. Sometimes, it’s just hard to remember that Scrooge isn’t invincible. Maybe it didn’t help that his family left him, that there didn’t seem much for him left to fight for after the argument with the kids, but the duck has weaknesses just like everyone else does.

(Just like Donald does.)

And that’s one thing they share in common: family is something they’d do anything for.

He remembers his previous decision to finally _talk_ to Scrooge about Della. It’s about time they had a proper conversation about why things changed between them, why the boys lack a mother and he a sister. This is something they need to talk about, past the bitterness and anguish, something they must finally come to terms to.

It feels like walking on a tightrope, and Donald’s always been afraid of heights.

But he’ll do it. Because Scrooge is family.

The car comes to a halt and the manor is before them, slightly wrecked on one side. Fortunately, none of the bedrooms are on the west end of the house—only Scrooge’s office. And anyway, there are far more extra rooms than they need, so they’ll be fine.

With years of practice, Donald picks up both Huey and Louie in his arms gently enough so they don’t wake up. Launchpad takes Dewey, and Mrs. B takes Webby. Scrooge opens the door. Silently, they carry the children into their respective rooms.

It’s not much of a struggle, getting them into bed. He won’t bother them with a bath or with pajamas, but just for tonight. They’ve been through a lot, more than he ever wanted for them, but this is what happens, he supposes, when adventure is in your blood.

As he shuts the door, he nods a goodnight to Launchpad. He’s about to walk back into his own quarters before he realizes that the houseboat was destroyed (again) and that he needs to stay in the manor tonight. It seems fitting, anyway, he doesn’t really want to leave the boys alone quite yet.

“You can take the room next to mine,” an accented voice comes from behind him. Donald would recognize it anywhere. He sounds exhausted, and it’s more than justified.

Donald gives him a half-smile. “Thanks, Uncle Scrooge.”

It’s not too far, only a couple of doors away. Donald falls into step with Scrooge as they walk to the room. The words at the back of his throats are itching to be said and to be heard. It’s been a long day, but this is long overdue.

“Here you are, nephew,” Scrooge says. He takes one more look at Donald before turning to the door of his own room. “Good night.”

But before Scrooge can turn the knob, Donald’s voice catches up with his mind.

“Uncle Scrooge, wait.”

(Scrooge has always been patient. He’s waited this long for his family to come back, hasn’t he?)

“Is there something you need?” he asks with an eyebrow raised. The cane hangs loosely from his hands.

“We…” he says, trying to find what to say. Now that he’s here, standing in front of Scrooge, the words seem to be drained from his beak. “We need to talk.”

Donald doesn’t give any other explanation besides that, but Scrooge’s face softens just a bit and he nods. He understands.

“Okay,” is all he says.

Donald opens the door to his room and settles on the bed. It’s his old bedroom, back when he still lived here—well, he does again, but before the houseboat—and it’s as he left it. The four poster bed, the framed photos on the wall, the blue painted ceiling. It’s his.

Scrooge sits next to him, the weight shifting. Oddly enough, it doesn’t feel tense. It’s…comfortable, actually. Like coming back to something after years of forgetting.

Donald takes a deep breath. Here it goes.

“I’m sorry,” he starts. Scrooge looks almost surprised at that. “I spent a really long time being angry at you for something you couldn’t control, and I tried to put the blame on you so I could feel better. And I realized that—that it doesn’t really matter anymore. It happened, and there’s nothing we can really do about it. The boys are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I know they mean a lot to you as well. They need a whole family, not just me. They need you, too. I’m sorry I stayed away for so long. You’re still family, and what they need is more important than what happened in the past.”

For the first time in all the years Donald’s known him, Scrooge stays quiet.

He takes this as his cue to continue.

“I don’t blame you for the Spear of Selene. You were just trying to be a good uncle, to give your niece what she wanted.” Donald offers a small smile as he says, “And I understand that now.”

Scrooge nods, shutting his eyes. Donald wonders what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. He focuses on his hands instead, fingers fumbling around. He doesn’t feel nervous, not really, because at least he’s trying to make proper amends. Better than nothing, right?

“Donald,” Scrooge says. His voice is low, grounding and soft. “You have nothing to apologize for. I am more at fault than you ever could be. I accept that. It’s my fault that Della found the spaceship and it’s my fault I didn’t talk her out of it. I thought it would work out because, well, because she was _Della_ , and I was—”

“Because you’re Scrooge McDuck,” he finishes. Donald knows it. Scrooge depends on his own confidence to get out of trouble, he believes that simply because he is who he is, he can get out of anything. Della had known that, too, and while it worked out most of the time, it didn’t when it mattered the most.

“Yes,” he agrees sadly. Donald matches his uncle’s gaze: outside the window, to where the stars light up the night sky. Where Della was last. “And I learned the hard way that it is not the reason for everything. It isn’t enough.”

Hearing Scrooge admit it himself makes it even more real.

“But sometimes it has to be,” Donald adds solemnly. Scrooge is right: it can’t be the reason for everything. But he’s also learned that sometimes, even when you hit your lowest point, there needs to be a reason to get better—and _sometimes_ that reason can be yourself.

(Sometimes, when you’re alone with three unhatched eggs in a tiny, cramped house, it has to be.)

“I knew you’d be fine, lad,” Scrooge reassures him, somehow understanding what he was thinking. “I mean, I was worried at the start, but I figured you’d get along just fine. And you did, didn’t you? You raised those boys well, Donald.”

“How?” he finds himself asking. “How did you know?”

“Well,” Scrooge says, leaning back slightly. He looks relaxed, more than he ever did in a long time. “It was because you’re Donald Duck.”

Oh.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, because he doesn’t really know what else to say. “If you want, I can show you some photos of the boys when they were younger. So you can catch up. I was saving them for Della, but—” Donald flushes, but he tries to make eye contact. “I can show you, if you want.”

Scrooge smiles—not the boastful kind or sarcastic. A soft smile, genuine and vulnerable.

“I would love that.”

They sit in silence for a while, just like the old days when they sailed the seas and it was a peaceful night. He feels calm.

“Louie told me about what you did earlier,” Scrooge says quietly, his voice laced with hints of pride. “The boy seemed so amazed that you could fight so well, that it seemed so natural to you. Did you never tell them about…?”

Donald shakes his head. “The less they knew about my past, the less questions they would ask. And the less they asked, the less they had to know about you or Della. It’s not that I wanted to hide it, it’s just—I want to protect them a little longer. But they’re braver than I thought they were, I know that now. Braver than me, sometimes.”

He feels a hand rest on his shoulder. Donald looks up at Scrooge.

“Nephew,” Scrooge says, “I never really showed it to you, but you were always one of the bravest people I knew. Aside from myself, of course.”

“Me?” Donald blurts out. “I’m not—”

“That’s not what the kids were thinkin’ earlier, lad,” Scrooge tells him with a knowing grin. “And neither do I.”

Donald can only stare. Sure, he’s always had a more adventurous side, but he chooses flight over fight in most situations. Defense, rather than attack. Offense had always been more of Scrooge and Della’s thing, not his.

“Just look at yourself, lad!” Scrooge exclaims, his arms stretching out towards him. “You raised not just one, but _three_ ducklings all on your own. You chose to do it. If that’s not brave, then I don’t know what is.”

Donald blinks. He’s never really thought of it that way.

Bravery usually means you’re standing in the face of danger or looking death in the eye. It means adventure and curses and traps. It’s puzzles and mind games, tricky questions and sticky situations. It’s difficulty and adversity wrapped up in a present all in one. It’s the rush and the adrenaline.

But as Scrooge’s words start to sink in, he starts to realize that maybe that isn’t all of it.

Maybe sometimes it’s taking charge of three children when your sister disappears, or living independently after years of ease. Maybe it’s doing everything you can when the odds are stacked against you, or when you’re running out of money but your nephews’ birthdays are coming up. Maybe it’s the late nights working on Halloween costumes or taking extra shifts at the grocery. Maybe it was doing everything he thought he couldn’t do because someone else depended on him. Maybe it’s the adventure the only love and pain mixed together can give you. Maybe it’s remaining undefeated after all these years, to still be standing tall with both feet on the ground.

Maybe it’s forgiving.

And that’s what he chose to do.

“You might be overprotective and cautious, Donald,” Scrooge says. “But it doesn’t mean you aren’t brave.”

Donald smiles at him. He feels validated, much like how it was when the boys spoke about him being passionate and thoughtful. And for it to be coming from Scrooge, the uncle he avoided and ignored for years, it feels _good_.

“And don’t ever doubt yourself, especially when it comes to the kids. You’ve been more a father than an uncle to those boys and we both know it. They need you, more than they’ll ever need any adventure. You’re _home_ to them. Somethin’ to return to after a long day of adventuring in the great beyond. Curse me kilts, that’s somethin’ everyone needs. They’re more than lucky to have you. And _I’m_ lucky to have you as my nephew.”

Donald nods. Slowly, he opens his arms toward his uncle, an invitation for a hug. Scrooge looks at him in surprise, before coming closer to return the embrace.

(There were times when he was younger, and the nightmares would chase him out of his sleep. He’d look for his mother, and she’d hold him close and sing lullabies until he fell asleep again. He found safety and comfort within her arms. This feels a lot like that.)

Donald lets go, and catches Scrooge’s eyes.

“You’re a good uncle,” he tells Scrooge honestly. “Cheap, but good.”

Scrooge rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches and he doesn’t try hard to fight the affectionate smile that appears on his face. “Speak for yourself, lad. You have anger issues.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves it off with his hand. He’s working on it, it’s just a little bit harder than he expected. “But you’ve gotta admit, it did come in handy sometimes.”

Donald thinks back to every adventure where the boys were in trouble, how he summoned his anger to find and protect them. Even back then, with Della and Scrooge, it had come useful at times. They had gone on so many adventures together, but he could track and name each expedition by heart. There was the Amazon Rainforest, the temples of Rome, the vacation trip to Klondike. Speaking of which—

“So,” he tries to say as casually as possible. “The boys told me a while back that you met up with Goldie O’Gilt. Did anything…happen between you two?”

Scrooge scoffs, turning slightly pink, his feathers ruffled up. “With that two-timing, backstabbin’ thief? Not a chance.”

Donald snorts. “You still love her, don’t you?”

“What—no—I—how—” Scrooge sputters out. He crosses his arms defensively. “That is not important right now.”

“Sure it is,” Donald says teasingly. “I think I’d like to know if I’m gonna get a new aunt.”

“That’s exactly what the boys said,” he mutters. Louder, he adds, “Nothing is happening between me and Goldie. Though if something did, I doubt that I would be in a position to decline.”

Donald is satisfied with that. “See? Was that so hard?”

Scrooge grumbles something incoherent. His eyes flash and he turns to Donald. “What about you? Have you, er, heard from Daisy lately?”

Daisy.

(His heart is racing at the mention of her name.)

Unfortunately for him, his story of true love doesn’t come with a happy ending. It’s a door closed shut, curtains drawn. (Or at least, that’s what it feels like.) He sighs.

Donald shakes his head. “No,” he admits dejectedly. “I haven’t seen her since Della disappeared.”

Thankfully, Scrooge doesn’t ask any questions.

He claps a hand on Donald’s shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that, nephew. I’m sure if you called, she’d answer.”

Donald nods weakly. It’s a good idea, something to think about. Ever since he started taking care of the boys, he didn’t really have much time to stop and think about his own personal life. To think about Daisy.

“We’ll see how it goes,” he replies. He misses her a lot, that’s for sure. Maybe once everything settles down, he could give it a try. “Maybe—maybe you’re right.”

“Always am,” Scrooge agrees. “After all, I’m tougher than the toughies, and—”

“Smarter than the smarties,” Donald supplies with a grin. “Yes, I know. You’ve said it a million times.”

Scrooge swats Donald’s shoulder lightly. He does one of his old man grumbles again, and Donald just laughs.

He’s missed this a lot, too.

The exhaustion finally catches up to him and a yawn escapes his mouth. Donald stretches his arms over his head. He looks over at his uncle, and finds that he looks tired as well.

Scrooge stands up, dusting off his clothes, his cane in front to support him. He smiles at him.

“Well, good night, Donald. I’ll see you in the mornin’,” he says, turning to leave for the door.

“Night, Uncle Scrooge.”

Donald watches as Scrooge shuts the door behind him, the soft creak of the door vibrating through the room.

He leans back on the bed. He feels lighter, somehow. Better, like most of his loose threads have found their way home. Like he finally reached the end of the tightrope, not once falling.

Donald goes to sleep, and for the first time in years, there are no ghosts that haunt him.

 

* * *

 

Home becomes the manor and less of the boat. Donald takes his time repairing the houseboat, bits and pieces left over from the battle and newer ones from the shop. There’s a lot to work on, but he’ll get it done eventually. Besides, he’s got a proper home now, one where they kids have all the space they need, and he doesn’t need to worry too much anymore.

He finds himself coming along on more and more adventures. It’s fun, the thrill and the adrenaline in his veins. Though he usually stands by the side and watches the kids take the reigns. He’s had his turn, and now it’s their time to shine. It’s nice to see them grow, to let them explore. He gets to see Huey use all the knowledge he’s learned from the Junior Woodchucks, to find that Dewey is getting less reckless, to watch as Louie gets more confident about himself, and to observe Webby as she learns to be more comfortable about who she is. To see that Scrooge is opening up again.

To find his own self letting go.

He eventually comes to realize that Della isn’t really a ghost anymore. Instead, she lives through all of them. In their adventures and in their stories and words, bits and pieces of her are embedded in them. She’s here, next to them, coming along on their adventures.

He finds it easier to talk about her, to breathe her name, now that the boys know about her. When they ask him, he tells them of their childhood—how she was always so brave and daring, how she stuck by his side when no one else did. How selfless and caring she was, and how much family meant to her. He retells the shenanigans they got into together, sometimes with Fethry and Gladstone thrown in the mix. He tells them all about her as if she were with them today. And Donald allows himself to believe that she could still be out there, waiting for a chance to come back home.

And that she’d bring the stars with her like she promised.

Weekly family game nights become a thing for all of them. It gets really competitive, all of them trying to win, but that also makes it even more fun. It’s exciting and an easy way to cool down after a long day of hard work. Monopoly gets banned in the manor because Scrooge hates that Donald keeps beating him (he does it for the irony, really). Sometimes he just watches the games if he’s too tired—but that occurs rarely, truth be told.

So now he’s sitting around the table with the rest of the family, eyes on the set of Uno cards in his hands. He’s got a card of every color, so he should be fine, but he’ll need to work quicker if he wants to win.

“Huey, it’s your turn,” Louie reminds him. “And hurry up this time, just put any card down, I really don’t care.”

“Oh, yeah?” Huey taunts. “You’ll care once I put this down.” He slams a switch card on the table.

Louie smirks, leaning back. “Did you really think you could defeat me that easily?”

Huey shakes his head.

It’s Webby’s turn, and she’s grinning as she places her card swiftly, quicker than anyone can see the movement. Donald looks at her hands, but it’s too late, they’re empty, which can only mean—

“Uno!” she exclaims, and there’s a collective sound of groaning. “I won! I won! I won!”

“You won, like, six times already,” Huey says, pressing his palm to his cheek as support. “And we’ve only been playing for an hour!”

“This game is rigged,” Dewey deadpans, throwing his cards in the air in exasperation. He turns to Louie. “Hey, let’s team up—woah, wait. Are you _crying_?” Dewey laughs, and Huey joins him.

“Aw, it’s okay, baby brother,” Huey croons, wrapping his arms around Louie’s neck. “Don’t cry.”

“Shut up,” Louie mumbles, but there’s a crack of a smile hidden underneath. “This game has a lot of pressure, okay?”

“The lad’s right,” Scrooge agrees, looking just as frustrated at the rest. “This game is terrible. Back in my day, it was so much easier to cheat at these things.”

Donald shakes his head in amusement and sits closer to Louie, placing his hand on his shoulder.

“I have an idea,” he suggests. “Let’s take a break. I’ll go get some food, and we can decide what to do after. That sound good?”

They all nod, and Donald takes it as his cue to leave. He enters the kitchen, takes out a tray, and places a couple of glasses and two mugs on it. He pours orange juice into four of them, nutmeg tea for Scrooge, and coffee for himself. Donald hums as he does so, an old faded tune that was Della’s favorite.

He thinks back to his family back in the game room, and he hears Louie laugh from afar. That’s good. The smiles and the laughter, that’s worth more than anything the world can offer.

He carries the tray back to the room. Pushing the door open, he hears Scrooge speaking, telling a story of sorts.

“—then Donald had the idea to check out the clock by the edge of the room. It turned out to be just a regular grandfather clock, but there was a hidden clue _behind_ it! He solved it faster than Della and I, it was brilliant!”

He settles the tray on the table. He knows this story. It’s one of his favorites.

“Uncle Donald, is that true?” Dewey asks, coming up to him as he takes a glass of juice.

He nods, both proud and a bit embarrassed. “It was a lucky guess.”

“Lucky guess! What’s a lucky guess was finding that dog bone by the side of the house, but certainly not this.” Scrooge is beaming at him with pride. “Lad, this one was remarkable. You solved that riddle faster than I could even read it.”

“That’s amazing!” Webby exclaims.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Heh. Yeah, I guess so.”

Scrooge clasps his hands together. “Right. Now where was I? Oh, yes, after that, Della was able to find the secret passage that led to a series of underground chambers…”

Donald sips his coffee as he watches Scrooge retell the tale. The old days were unlike anything he’s ever experienced; they’re full of wit and sharp edges and stormy nights. He remembers them fondly and cherishes them, they’re a part of who he is.

But he also remembers to stop daydreaming and look around, to see all the newer adventures he’s going to have with his family now. The kids are going to do extraordinary things, with Scrooge and Donald there to support them.

There are more adventures to come, some good and some bad, but they’ll always solve whatever challenge that may come their way. They’re the Ducks, after all. Adventure is in their blood.

They’ll take what comes.


End file.
